“Fire! Fire! They’re all gonna die! They’re all gonna burn up!”
 
I had absolutely no hope of restoring order as I read the story of Pentecost with my young children last year. As soon as they glimpsed the tongues of fire hovering over the foreheads of the apostles, they were lost to giggles and shrieks. I sighed, sipped my coffee, and wondered resentfully why the Holy Spirit couldn’t have chosen to be a dove on that particular day. Just a nice, peaceful dove.
 
I’ll say this, though: the fire left an impression. It usually does, doesn’t it? Fire consumes. It renews. It illuminates. It leaves you breathless with fear and awe. The memory and scent and impact of a flame lingers long after it is extinguished.
 
When I am trying to explain theology to my kids, I have an awful habit of overcomplicating things. I’d had a whole speech prepared for them about what the Holy Spirit is, but it went out the window as soon as they saw the flames. And you know what? It’s probably for the best. They wouldn’t have remembered that speech. The flames, though? The flames they remembered. The flame communicated.
 
As a result of Pentecost, the apostles suddenly had the ability to give the truth to foreigners. Aliens. People who were heretofore beyond their reach, isolated by language. The flame communicated.
 
God’s sense of timing is impeccable, and His delivery is carefully crafted. And on Pentecost, the Holy Spirit did not descend as a dove or pour forth as water.
 
On Pentecost, the Holy Spirit burned.
 
“Lord, send out your Spirit, and renew the face of the earth.” — Psalm 104